


Sick Days Are Overrated

by citrinesunset



Category: White Collar
Genre: Appendicitis, Gen, Hospitals, Illnesses, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:55:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrinesunset/pseuds/citrinesunset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal wakes up with nausea and stomach pains, and what he hopes is a short-lived stomach bug is only getting worse. Peter and Mozzie try to help in their own ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick Days Are Overrated

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting on my hard drive for a while, and I finally found the time to do some final revisions so I could post it. Many thanks to [](http://rabidchild.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://rabidchild.livejournal.com/)**rabidchild** for taking a look at this a long, long time ago. There's no particular time-frame for this fic, but I see it as taking place in late season one or early season two.

Neal was dreaming about being nauseous.

 

Actually, he was dreaming about trying to crack a safe. He was in a strange house, and Mozzie was pacing back and forth, urging him to get the safe open. But the safe wasn't one he'd ever seen before. How was that possible? And somehow, he knew Peter was downstairs, looking for him. And he felt like he was going to throw up on the Persian rug under his feet.

 

Waking up should have been a relief, even if it was a half hour before his alarm was set to go off.

 

But the nausea was real. Upon realizing that, it only took him a minute to run to the bathroom.

 

Leaning over the toilet, he thought back to everything he'd eaten in the last twenty-four hours. His chest pounded from the strain of throwing up, and his stomach ached in a way that didn't feel like it could be soothed so easily.

 

Eventually, he grasped the edge of the sink and pulled himself up. His knees burned from the tile floor. He rinsed his mouth and studied his pale, sweaty face in the mirror. Finally, he ventured into the living room. He sat on the sofa and watched the time. A half hour before he was supposed to show up at the office, he called Peter.

 

"Hey," Peter said when he answered. "What's going on?"

 

"I don't think I can come in today. I'm sick."

 

"Oh, yeah?"

 

He thought he heard some faint doubt in Peter's voice. He probably thought Neal was faking it.

 

"Yeah. Hey, you didn't feel sick at all after lunch yesterday, did you?"

 

They'd gotten sandwiches from the same food cart a few blocks from work, and it was the only thing Neal had eaten that could possibly have made him sick. That was almost twenty-four hours ago, though.

 

"Nope. I'm fine."

 

"Hm. It's probably a stomach bug. Doesn't feel much like food poisoning, anyway."

 

There was a brief pause on the other end, and then Peter said, "All right, well get some rest. Keep me informed."

 

"Hope you guys can manage all right without me."

 

"Oh, I think we'll be okay."

 

After he hung up, Neal put his legs up on the coffee table. Stretching out made his stomach feel a little better. He wanted to lie back down, but he was still too nauseous. Every swallow he took felt precarious. He thought about taking some Tylenol for his stomachache, but he doubted he'd be able to keep it down.

 

Neal managed to doze off, lapsing into a light, fitful sleep. He woke immediately when the door opened.

 

He felt a twinge of nausea when he whipped his head around, but it settled. Mozzie was coming into the apartment, and he let out a short yell of surprise when he saw Neal on the sofa.

 

"What are you doing here? I thought you'd be at work by now."

 

"What does it look like? I'm sick. What are _you_ doing here?"

 

Mozzie closed the door behind him. "For your information, I thought I would take advantage of the peaceful ambiance while you were at work."

 

More likely, he'd planned to help himself to Neal's wine collection. Neal knew Moz came over when he wasn't home, and he always found opened bottles to prove it. If he didn't feel so horrible, he'd find Mozzie's indignation at being caught amusing.

 

Mozzie subtly made his way over to the counter where the wine sat, and gave the bottles a sideways glance.

 

"If you want something, take it," Neal said. "I don't think my stomach can handle wine today."

 

Mozzie looked at him. "I told you that sushi was a mistake."

 

"It's not the sushi. That was three days ago."

 

"Never underestimate the power of an intestinal parasite."

 

Neal made a face. "Moz!" he snapped. "I don't have a parasite! It's just some stomach bug."

 

"In that case, I think I should go before I catch it."

 

Neal closed his eyes and waved his hand. "Fine...."

 

He heard Mozzie walk past the sofa and open the door. After it shut again, he opened his eyes and turned on the TV. He didn't think he had it in him to read or draw, and he hoped that if he took it easy, whatever he'd caught would clear up by the end of the day.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter showed up around lunchtime. Neal yelled for him to come in when he knocked. He didn't budge from the sofa, where he was idly watching a talk show.

 

Peter had a file tucked under his arm. He looked at Neal and raised his eyebrows.

 

"Huh. You really do look sick."

 

Neal lazily turned his head toward him. "I look that bad?"

 

"Actually, it's the fact you're watching _Maury_ that gives it away."

 

"You wouldn't believe how little there is to choose from on TV right now." He sighed and slowly put his feet on the floor. "So, are you satisfied?"

 

"Satisfied?"

 

"I bet you thought I was faking it."

 

"The possibility crossed my mind. But even Neal Caffrey is capable of getting sick occasionally. How's your stomach?"

 

"Sore. But at least I'm not as nauseous now."

 

"You got any ginger ale? That can help."

 

"No, but Mozzie brought by some ginger tea a little bit ago." He lifted the thermos that was sitting on the coffee table and gave it a little shake.

 

"That was considerate of him."

 

"It was, except he had June's maid bring it up to me. And this note was taped to it."

 

He handed Peter a folded piece of paper. Peter opened it and read. "'Keep the thermos.' Don't see what's so bad about that."

 

"He wants me to keep it because he doesn't want to catch whatever I have. Moz can be weird about germs."

 

"Ah. Why am I not surprised?" Peter handed the note back to him. "Well, I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I'd stop by and see how you're doing." He held up the file. "Thought you'd be interested in looking over this case that came across my desk today. But if you're really sick, you should get your rest."

 

"No, it's fine. Go ahead and tell me about it."

 

He thought he should be annoyed that Peter was trying to foist work on him during a sick day. But it couldn't be worse than what he was already doing.

 

He switched off the TV and moved aside so Peter could sit beside him.

 

Peter opened the file and held it in his lap. "There was a robbery at a gallery last night. Two paintings got stolen."

 

"Lemme see."

 

Peter slid the file over so Neal could see the pictures. There were several photos, both of the paintings and the crime scene.

 

"There were security cameras, but the thief knew how to avoid them."

 

"Casing the gallery must have taken time. Is there any way to find out if there were frequent visitors recently?"

 

Peter smiled. "Good thinking. We're working on that now. The other possibility is an inside job, but the employees check out so far." He tapped the pictures of the stolen paintings. "If you took these, what would your next move be? Neal?"

 

Neal shook his head and looked up. "Sorry, I spaced out. Uh, I'd try to move the paintings fast. They aren't extremely high profile pieces, so they aren't too difficult to sell. But the sooner you move them, the easier it'd be. And—um...."

 

"Neal, you all right?"

 

"Yeah, yeah, it's just ...my stomach is really bothering me." He shifted and put a hand on his abdomen.

 

Peter straightened up the papers and closed the file. "All right, that's enough for now. You obviously need your rest."

 

"Sorry. I'm just not a hundred percent right now. Wish I could be more help."

 

Peter frowned, but patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it. I'm sure you'll feel better in a bit."

 

* * *

 

 

He wasn't any better when evening came, and he realized that he'd probably have to call in sick again tomorrow. Normally, he wouldn't mind some time off. Having a job where he could call in sick was still something of a novelty. He didn't count prison—in prison, he could get excused from the usual routine, but it meant being stuck in his cell or the infirmary. Doing menial prison work was generally better than that.

 

Neal couldn't delight in the prospect of time off, though. Even though he wasn't nauseous anymore, he couldn't focus enough to paint. And Mozzie would probably stay away for a few days.

 

Neal looked in his refrigerator, staring for a moment at the food he had no appetite for. He thought about trying to force down some dinner, but he wasn't sure his stomach could take it.

 

Without anything else to do, he crawled into bed early. Exhausted, he fell asleep quickly.

 

He had no idea how long he'd been asleep when he woke up, drenched in sweat. The pain in his abdomen, which had been a dull ache all day, was now so sharp it had forced him awake. He gasped and gingerly pushed the sheet off his stomach. He lifted his t-shirt and looked down, almost expecting to see swelling. The pain was now focalized in his right side, and he tried to touch it. He felt a sharp pain, and jerked his hand away.

 

Neal put his head back. The pillow was cool and damp from his sweat.

 

Something was wrong, and he knew deep down that waiting until morning wouldn't help. He'd had his fair share of injuries, and he was used to caring for them at home. But now, he had no doubt he needed a doctor.

 

Slowly, he got out of bed. He didn't bother changing out of his sweatpants and t-shirt. Trying not to make any sudden movements, he slowly put on his shoes and coat and grabbed his things. He made his way downstairs slowly and painfully. June was out late tonight, and the house was dark and quiet.

 

To his relief, he managed to get a cab only a minute after making it to the street. He sank into the back seat and told the driver to take him to the hospital.

 

Looking at him in the rearview mirror, the driver said, "You all right? You don't look too good."

 

"I'll be fine."

 

"You sure you don't need an ambulance? If this is some sort of emergency...."

 

The man sounded both concerned and apprehensive, probably thinking about how bad it would be if his passenger died. Or threw up on the upholstery.

 

"I'm fine," Neal said through gritted teeth. He thought he did a pretty good job of masking the pain he was in, but he was still sweating.

 

As the driver headed in the direction of the hospital, Neal sat back and took deep breaths. Then he thought of Peter, and reached for his phone in his coat pocket.

 

Neal looked at his watch while he waited for Peter to pick up. He hadn't checked what time it was before calling, but it was only midnight. Peter might not even be asleep yet.

 

"Neal?" Peter said when he answered.

 

"Hey, sorry to bother you, but I'm going to the ER."

 

"The—why? What happened?"

 

"Nothing. It's my stomach. It's worse."

 

"Yeah, you don't sound good."

 

Maybe he wasn't hiding it as well as he thought.

 

"I'll meet you there," Peter said. "Are you taking a cab?"

 

"Yeah. But you don't have to come."

 

"Yes, I do," Peter said. Neal could hear movement in the background, like Peter was getting dressed. "Where are you going?"

 

Neal told him, and they hung up. He wouldn't have admitted it over the phone, but he was glad Peter was coming. Neal closed his eyes and didn't open them until they arrived at the hospital.

 

* * *

 

 

In the waiting room, Neal kept looking over his shoulder to see if Peter was coming through the doors. He thought about trying to call him again, but he didn't want to cause alarm. Nor did he want to distract Peter while he was driving. He'd ridden with Peter while he tried to talk and drive at the same time.

 

It felt like he'd been in the waiting room forever. He was slouched in a chair with plastic upholstery that squeaked when he moved. He wanted to fidget, but moving hurt too much. He settled for squeezing his knee.

 

How could they make him wait this long? It was an _emergency_ room—what if something was really wrong with him?

 

There was a TV in the corner of the ceiling, showing the news. Neal wished he could turn it off. The noise was making his head hurt.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Peter's trench coat. Peter looked left and right and, seeing Neal, rushed over. He sat down in an empty chair.

 

"Hey, I got here as soon as I could. What's going on? You said your stomach was worse?"

 

Neal winced. "Yeah. I feel like I'm in that scene in _Alien_ when the alien bursts out of the guy's stomach."

 

He gingerly touched his side, and Peter watched his movements with a furrowed brow.

 

"Your side hurt?"

 

Neal nodded.

 

Peter frowned. "You ever have your appendix out?"

 

Neal shook his head.

 

"Then it sounds like you have appendicitis."

 

Neal managed a pained laugh. "I think I'll wait for a doctor to diagnose me."

 

"How long have you been waiting?"

 

"I don't know. Forty-five minutes?"

 

Peter looked around. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

 

He didn't know where Peter thought he'd go. Neal folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes. He didn't open them again until Peter was back at his side.

 

"It shouldn't be much longer," Peter said.

 

"What'd you do?" Neal murmured. "Flash your badge at them?"

 

He probably said all sorts of stuff about Neal being a work-released convict, too, but Neal didn't have the energy to care about that now.

 

Maybe Peter's presence actually did help, because it wasn't much longer before they were summoned. Neal was taken to a curtained-off cubicle, and Peter continued to talk to the hospital staff while Neal stripped down to his boxers and put on a hospital gown.

 

He eased himself on the bed and rested against the raised back. The ER was cold, and he could feel the hair rising on his legs. He'd thought it'd be a relief to get past the waiting room, but now he realized that he facing even more waiting. How long would it be now?

 

When the curtain moved, Neal hoped it was a nurse or doctor. But it was Peter.

 

"Hanging in there?" he asked.

 

Neal was taking deep breaths. He managed a small nod.

 

"Got some news you'll like. The hospital thinks it'll be best if your anklet comes off." He fished into his pocket and pulled out the familiar-looking key.

 

He knew Peter expected him to act pleased. Neal always took advantage of a chance to get out of the anklet, and he thought that amused Peter. But he couldn't muster up any enthusiasm. He lay still and silent while Peter took the anklet off.

 

Peter seemed to notice. Gently patting him on the knee, he said, "I'm sure you'll be fine. I bet they'll need to take out your appendix, though."

 

"Why are you so sure it's appendicitis?" Neal snapped.

 

"Are you kidding? This is classic appendicitis. I had it when I was younger. It hurts like hell, but it's not that big of a deal."

 

Neal was about to retort when a nurse came in. She smiled warmly as she took his vitals and drew some blood. Peter stood in the corner with his arms crossed. After she left, Neal leaned back again. He wished the nurse had said when a doctor would see him.

 

He turned his head to look at Peter. "Sorry I disrupted your night," he said softly.

 

"Don't worry about it. I wasn't even asleep."

 

"You didn't have to come."

 

"Actually, I did. You going to the hospital means paperwork."

 

"I don't think this is work-related."

 

"I doubt it. But you're still in our custody."

 

He'd been so preoccupied that he hadn't given it much thought. Now, he was even more relieved that Peter had come. He didn't know how he'd deal with another agent or the marshals at the moment.

 

Eventually, a young man in a white coat came in. At first, Neal thought he might be another nurse, or maybe even a technician. He didn't look old enough to have completed medical school. But he introduced himself as Dr. Grant.

 

Dr. Grant turned to Peter and said, "I need to examine Mr. Caffrey, if you'd like step out for a few minutes."

 

"Sure," Peter said. He started to reach for the curtain to leave, but Neal stopped him.

 

"Actually, is it all right if he stays?"

 

Peter paused and looked at Dr. Grant, who shrugged.

 

"That's fine." He reached for a rolling stool and pulled it over. "I just need to lift your gown so I can see your abdomen. You say your right side hurts?"

 

Neal swallowed. "Yeah, I was nauseous and sore earlier, but now there's this sharp pain in my side."

 

Dr. Grant pulled on a pair of gloves and sat on the stool.

 

The room was even colder once Neal pulled his hospital gown up. Peter respectfully looked away, even though Neal was in his boxers. Dr. Grant asked him some more questions about how he felt, and then started to press on his abdomen.

 

"Let me know if you feel any pain."

 

Neal squirmed. "It's kind of sore."

 

He moved his hands closer to Neal's side. "How about now?"

 

Neal cried out and jerked away. "Ah!"

 

"Okay, so that was worse."

 

Neal gritted his teeth. He'd reflexively turned onto his left side, moving out of the doctor's reach.

 

"It was worse," he said tersely. He tried to sound angry, but his voice came out pained. He breathed through his teeth.

 

"Can you tell me how bad it was on a scale of one to ten, with ten being the—"

 

"I don't know! A nine. Maybe an eight?"

 

"All right. I know this is uncomfortable. But if you'll turn onto your back, we're almost done."

 

" _Almost_ done? Are you serious?"

 

Peter stepped closer and put a hand on Neal's shoulder. "C'mon, Neal, you have to let him examine you."

 

Neal looked up at Peter. "Exam—Peter, did you see what he did?"

 

"He has to see where it hurts."

 

"We're going to get you something for the pain as soon as possible," Dr. Grant said.

 

"See?" Peter said.

 

Neal didn't "see" anything, but he reluctantly turned onto his back. The rest of the exam wasn't as bad, but he still breathed a sigh of relief when it was over.

 

"All right," Dr. Grant said at last. "From your symptoms and the location of the pain, it looks like you probably have appendicitis. We'll do some further tests to verify it."

 

"I told you it was appendicitis," Peter said, sounding annoyingly triumphant.

 

Neal wasn't satisfied. Turning to Dr. Grant, he said, "Are you a resident?"

 

"Yes. I've been a resident here for—"

 

"Could I see your attending?"

 

Dr. Grant suddenly looked annoyed and wary, but he answered in the same infuriatingly calm voice he'd been using. "That would be Dr. Bernhardt. You can see her, but there isn't a lot she'll be able to do until after we get your blood work back and get you in for a CT scan."

 

After the doctor left, Peter lowered his voice to a hiss and said, "Neal, what was that?"

 

"What do you mean, what was that? He looks younger than I am! He's not even a fully-trained doctor!"

 

Peter rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on. The man is a resident. He's been through medical school. You're making it sound like he's a first-year student. It's his job to handle things like this."

 

"Sure, you're confident. You weren't the one getting tortured by Doogie Howser."

 

"Look," Peter said, "I know you're not in a great mood right now. But you need to muster up some of that conman charm of yours and cooperate with the doctors. The more you cooperate, the sooner they'll diagnose you and get your appendix out."

 

"I don't think it's appendicitis," Neal said. "Come on, that's something you get when you're young."

 

"I was twenty when I had my appendix out."

 

"Exactly."

 

Peter shook his head. "You're being ridiculous."

 

Neal covered himself with the sheet on the bed and tried to find a position that was the least painful.

 

"The scan will prove it," Peter continued. "If it shows you appendix is inflamed, will you accept it then?"

 

"Yeah," Neal said. "Sure."

 

* * *

 

 

The scan, however, _did_ show that his appendix was inflamed. And his blood work showed an elevated white blood cell count.

 

Dr. Bernhardt, the attending, delivered the news. "Frankly," she said, "the diagnosis couldn't be much clearer. And I agree with Dr. Grant—we should operate soon. At this point, surgery is the only option, and putting it off is unwise."

 

"What does that mean?" Peter asked with a frown. "Are you worried it's going to rupture?"

 

"Well, the longer we wait, the bigger the risk. That's why I want to get Mr. Caffrey into surgery soon. He's fortunate that we have an opening in the OR and putting it off is only—"

 

"I'm not putting it off," Neal said. "I just want to be sure before someone cuts me open."

 

Dr. Bernhardt turned back to him. She was a short, older woman with wrinkles around her mouth that looked like they'd been caused by too much frowning. She'd been frowning since she came into the cubicle. But while she talked about risks and the need to operate, her tone was matter-of-fact.

 

"Like I said, the diagnosis is as clear as we could hope for."

 

Neal raised his arm, jiggling the IV line that was now attached to it. "But I'm feeling a lot better now and—"

 

"That's the morphine taking effect. You're still sick."

 

"I know. But the pain is better, so there's time."

 

"Neal," Peter said, putting his hands on his hips, "if your appendix bursts, there _won't_ be much time. And then you'll be in a lot worse shape than you are now. Try to think about that." His voice was firm but even.

 

Neal frowned. "I just—surgery?"

 

This was not how he'd expected his night to go. Truthfully, he'd been in too much pain to expect much.

 

"You'll feel a lot better afterward," Peter said.

 

Neal wanted to point out that Peter wasn't a doctor. Then again, Peter _had_ had his appendix taken out, so maybe he did know something about this. Not that Neal would admit that.

 

"All right," Neal said, waving his hand. "Fine."

 

Without hesitation, Dr. Bernhardt said, "Great. We'll get things moving, then." Turning to Peter, she said, "Could I speak to a moment?"

 

As Peter followed her out, Neal got the suspicion that Dr. Bernhardt was more interested in talking to his FBI handler than him. She was probably going to ask Peter to cuff him to the bed. Maybe he should have been nicer to Dr. Grant. It was just so hard when he was in pain. He'd never dealt with pain well.

 

He was feeling a lot better now, though. Of course, he knew it was mostly because of the morphine they'd given him. He looked at the IV lines in his arms. There were two—the morphine, and an antibiotic.

 

It seemed like Peter was gone for a long time. When he finally came back, he said, "Sorry about that. The hospital wanted to talk to me some more about procedure."

 

Neal frowned. "Don't tell me you're cuffing me to the bed."

 

"Oh, I don't think even you're stupid enough to try to sneak out of here when you have appendicitis. Even if you did seem determined to avoid surgery."

 

Neal blinked. His eyes were getting heavy. Maybe it was the morphine, or maybe the lack of sleep was catching up with him now that the pain was under control. "What can I say? I don't like the idea of being cut open."

 

Peter put his hands on hips and studied Neal. "You know, I never would've pegged you as being afraid of the hospital."

 

"Oh, I don't mind hospitals. I just don't like surgery. They knock you out, cut into you...."

 

"You'll be fine."

 

Rationally, Neal knew he probably would be. But that didn't change the fact that they were going to put him under, and he wouldn't know what was happening until he woke up with a hole in his body where his appendix used to be.

 

"Hey," Peter said, "I'm just going to step out for a minute and give El a call. I promised to keep her updated."

 

"Do you have to leave?" Neal asked.

 

"Not for a while," Peter said.

 

* * *

 

 

They moved Neal to a room to wait, and Peter sat with him until, finally, they were ready to prep him for surgery.

 

The surgeon, Dr. Lassiter, came by to talk to Neal. He smiled a lot and seemed less concerned than anyone else. Neal hoped that was a good sign.

 

"This is a very common operation," he said, "and you seem to be in great health. I have a lot of confidence."

 

Peter was slumped in a chair in the corner, looking a great deal more tired than he did a few hours ago. Lifting his head, he said, "See? Told you it's not a big deal."

 

Neal didn't admit it, but it _was_ more comforting coming from the surgeon than from Peter.

 

Turning his head to the doctor, he asked, "Could you explain what you're going to be doing, exactly?"

 

"I'd be happy to."

 

Dr. Lassiter proceeded to explain the appendectomy with the same interest that Neal reserved for explaining cons to Peter. Neal listened, engrossed.

 

It was almost enough to make him feel assured.

 

Turning to Peter, Dr. Lassiter said, "Now, I do want to be clear that we'll need minimal interference during the operation. And Mr. Caffrey, of course, will probably be out from the anesthesia for a good while."

 

"Security shouldn't be a problem," Peter said. "I have discretion when it comes to that."

 

Dr. Lassiter smiled. "Glad to hear it. Believe it or not, this sort of thing happens all the time. We're all used to working with law enforcement."

 

Peter looked annoyingly assured by that.

 

When Dr. Lassiter left, Neal had markings drawn on his abdomen, and the impending operation suddenly seemed very close.

 

"You'll be fine," Peter said, softly.

 

"I know," Neal said, sounding more confident than he was.

 

* * *

 

 

Neal had been telling Peter the truth—he really didn't mind hospitals.

 

There were worse things than having friendly nurses checking up on him, making sure he had everything he needed.

 

He felt good when he woke up, even if he was groggy and sluggish. He was in recovery, attached to another IV of morphine.

 

A nurse came over and asked how he was feeling, and Neal said, "Did it go okay? Did they get it out?" His voice sounded tired and slurred.

 

The nurse smiled. "Yep, they said the operation went fine. You're just coming out of anesthesia now, so you're going to be groggy for a while."

 

It took him a while to wake up, but he did feel better. He knew he would probably be sore once they took him off the painkillers, but for now he felt...good.

 

The trade-off for not being cuffed to the bed was that he had an FBI escort hanging around, keeping an eye on him. Right now, it was a young agent named Freddy who worked in the white collar division. Peter had had to go to work, and had been long gone by the time Neal woke up. Neal tried not to be disappointed. He knew Peter had sacrificed most, if not all, of his sleep keeping him company last night. He couldn't expect him to stay at the hospital all day, too.

 

Now that Neal thought about it, the appendectomy hadn't been such a big deal, after all. Peter was probably right not to be worried.

 

Not long after he was moved to a private room, Dr. Lassiter stopped by to see how he was doing.

 

"Let us know if you feel like anything's wrong," he told Neal, "but I expect you to make a good recovery. The operation went perfectly."

 

Neal smiled. "Only because I was in good hands."

 

It was much easier to be in a good mood now.

 

He spent the afternoon resting. Freddy was harmless, and Neal easily got rid of him for a while by asking for a magazine from the gift shop, with promises of reimbursement later.

 

He didn't actually mind having Freddy around, but it felt good to feel like he was back on his game.

 

After a couple hours, Freddy was replaced by Jones, who wasn't as easy to get rid of.

 

"I'm sorry Peter's making you keep an eye on me," Neal said. Maybe with enough sympathizing, he could convince him to take a coffee break.

 

Jones shrugged. "Hey, I don't mind. You're doing okay, and I got ten dollars out of all this, so it's all good."

 

"Peter paid you ten dollars to come?"

 

"Nah, got it from Diana. We had a bet. I said you'd be out sick again today, and she thought you wouldn't have the nerve."

 

Neal raised his eyebrows. "I'm glad my life-threatening infection was profitable."

 

"Hey, this was yesterday. We didn't know you had appendicitis. We thought you were just faking. I figured since you never called in sick before now, you'd try to milk it for all it's worth."

 

"Well, maybe next time, you'll take me more seriously."

 

"As long as you don't claim to have appendicitis again."

 

As it turned out, Peter must not have been that serious about leaving Neal with supervision, because Jones was eventually called away and no one replaced him. Peter must have figured that the opportunity to sneak away wasn't worth disconnecting himself from the painkillers.

 

Later, he was half-watching a nature documentary about elephants and sipping juice through a straw when there was a knock on his door.

 

Looking over, he saw Peter, followed closely by Elizabeth.

 

"Hey," Peter said, "how's the patient doing?"

 

"Great," Neal said. "Looks like it really was appendicitis."

 

Peter raised an eyebrow. "As if there was doubt?"

 

"Anyway, the pain's gone, and they're letting me have fluids. Later, I should be able to eat some broth."

 

Elizabeth walked over and rubbed his arm. "Glad to hear you're doing all right. I hope you don't mind an extra visitor, but I told Peter to bring me along."

 

"I'm always glad to have a visitor who isn't an FBI escort."

 

"I thought you might be bored, so I brought you a couple things."

 

She reached into her purse and pulled out a magazine and a book of crossword puzzles. She set them, along with a pencil, on the table over Neal's lap.

 

"I told her you'd probably be too tired to do much reading," Peter said, "but she thought you could use some entertainment."

 

"No," Neal said with a smile, "they're great, thanks."

 

Elizabeth sat down in the chair on the other side of the room. Peter stayed by Neal's bed.

 

"So," Peter said, "I hear they're planning to release you in the morning."

 

"Yeah, they're pretty optimistic."

 

"I'll plan on picking you up. By the way, I'm sorry I couldn't come back earlier. I made sure Jones gave me a full report on how you were doing."

 

"No, it's fine. I know you had work."

 

"I knew you'd be okay. But if there'd been any trouble, I would've been back right away."

 

"It's not like it was a major surgery."

 

"Then I take it you were worried over nothing."

 

Neal shrugged innocently. "Who said I was worried?"

 

"Oh!" Elizabeth said. "Honey, don't you have something for Neal?"

 

Peter suddenly looked apprehensive. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out an envelope. Before handing it to Neal, he said, "Don't let this go to your head. We keep these on hand for every time someone is in the hospital."

 

Neal opened the bright yellow envelope and pulled out a card. Grinning, he opened it up and looked at the names inside. "The white collar division got me get well card?"

 

"No, they didn't 'get' it. They pulled it out of a drawer. I didn't even know it was circulating around until someone put it on my desk to sign."

 

"I can't wait to show this to Mozzie."

 

Peter was smiling. "Like I said, don't let it go to your head."

 

Looking at the names signed inside the card some more, Neal thought it was a shame that most of them weren't full signatures. He thought about saying so, just to let Peter know he was back on his game, but thought better of it.

 

Peter and Elizabeth visited for almost an hour. Elizabeth told Neal about a new caterer she was planning to work with, and promised to give him samples as soon as he was feeling up to it. While she talked, Peter quietly reached for the small remote on Neal's bed and changed the channel to a football game.

 

"Honey!" Elizabeth said. "What are you doing?"

 

Peter threw up his hands. "What? He wasn't paying attention to it!"

 

"I know, but—"

 

"Guys, it's fine," Neal said. "Actually, I'm getting kinda tired...."

 

Elizabeth gave him a sympathetic smile. "You do sound tired. We should probably let you rest."

 

Neal turned to Peter. "Speaking of resting, I guess I have some sick leave coming up."

 

"Yeah, I think we'll need to do without you for a few days, at least."

 

Neal smiled. "I guess government work does have its perks."

 

"Don't get too excited. When you get back, you'll probably have to do some of that boring desk work you dislike so much until you get the all-clear to go into the field. And I'm going to keep an eye on you while you're off work. Maybe I'll give you some files to keep you busy."

 

"Seriously? You expect me to work from home while I'm recovering from surgery?"

 

"No, but eventually, you're going to get bored sitting around your apartment. And I'm going to keep you busy so you don't get any ideas."

 

There were worse ways to spend sick days than reading files. But Neal thought he would be "too tired" to do any work this week, just to prove Peter wrong about him needing a diversion.

 

And right now, it didn't feel dishonest. He _was_ tired. After Peter and Elizabeth left, he switched off the TV. And after eating the promised broth for dinner, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

He woke up sometime in the night to someone coming into his room. At first, he figured it was a nurse, doing a check. But when he cracked open his eyes, he saw a familiar figure wearing white coat.

 

"Moz?"

 

Mozzie putting a finger to his lips. "Not too loud. I snuck past the nurses."

 

"You didn't have to do that," Neal mumbled.

 

"Are you kidding? When June told me what happened, I had to come."

 

"No...I mean, I bet Peter would've let you visit if you came earlier. You didn't have to...come in disguise."

 

"This is better. Did they really take out your appendix?"

 

Neal licked his lips, trying to moisten his mouth. "They did."

 

"Where is it now?"

 

"What?"

 

"The appendix. Do you have it?"

 

"Wha— _no_. I don't know where it is. They probably got rid of it."

 

Mozzie's eyes widened. "You should've had them save it for you!" he whispered furiously. "Now the feds probably have it!"

 

"Seriously, Moz? What would the FBI want with my appendix?"

 

"Does DNA mean anything to you?"

 

"If they wanted my DNA, they could probably get it from my coffee cup."

 

"You leave your coffee cups where they can get them?"

 

Neal groaned. "C'mon, Moz, I had surgery this morning. I'm not in the mood for conspiracy theories."

 

"Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you when the feds decide to clone you."

 

"I'll take that risk."

 

"It's your DNA, mon frère. Now, I should run before the nurse comes."

 

"Hey," Neal said as Mozzie turned to leave, "thanks for coming. I know you hate hospitals."

 

"Don't mention it. Oh, and I hope you don't mind, but I took it upon myself to finish that chardonnay we opened a couple days ago. I imagine you'll be on antibiotics for at least a week, so—"

 

"Drink whatever you want, Moz."

 

* * *

 

 

"Really?" Neal asked as Peter put the anklet back on him. "I thought maybe I proved myself when you didn't have to cuff me to the bed."

 

"I think now that you're not attached to an IV, the temptation might be a little too great. Besides, now I'll know if you're abusing your sick leave."

 

"The doctor said I should move around, you know. It helps with the healing."

 

"And you can do that just fine sticking close to home."

 

Neal was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed. He looked down at his anklet, and then at his sweatpants, which he'd been wearing when he went to the ER. "You know, you could've brought me some real clothes, at least."

 

"You have a healing incision site on your stomach. Do you really want to wear pants that have a tight waist?"

 

Peter had a point, but Neal didn't have to like it. Now that he was feeling better, he was much more conscious of how ridiculous he looked in his sweatpants and t-shirt.

 

They stopped by a pharmacy on the way back to June's, and Neal waited in the car while Peter went inside to pick up his prescriptions. He idly fiddled with the radio, changing the stations in search of something good. When he saw Peter in the passenger door mirror, walking toward the car with the prescription bags, he quickly turned the station back to what Peter had been listening to.

 

"You sure you'll be all right?" Peter asked as he got back in the car. "The stairs won't be a problem?"

 

"I'll be okay."

 

He was sorer, though, now that the morphine had worn off. And he'd realized when getting into the Taurus that he needed to be careful about how he moved. It looked like Peter might be right about him having to desk work for a bit.

 

Peter looked skeptical. "Well, I'll help you up. And if you need anything...."

 

"Thanks, Peter."

 

June gave him a gentle hug when he got home, and Peter helped him upstairs. It was easier than he expected, but when he got into his apartment he was out of breath and his heart was pounding from the exertion. He went straight to the bed and sat down while Peter put his prescription bags on the counter.

 

Peter excused himself and returned a minute later with a file that looked a lot like the one from yesterday. He dropped it on the table and said, "In case you get bored."

 

Peter looked around the apartment, as though he was trying to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. "I think Elizabeth is going to try to bring you over some soup in a bit. And I'll stop by after work."

 

"Before you go, could you get me a glass of water?"

 

While Peter got a glass out of the cupboard, Neal took off his shoes and put his feet up on the bed.

 

"Thanks," he said, as Peter handed the water to him. "Oh, and could you grab me a book from the shelf? The one with the red spine. Yeah, that one."

 

Peter pulled out the book and looked at the cover. "Any particular reason you're interested in postmodern European art?"

 

"It makes me feel better when I'm sick."

 

Peter set it on the bed. "Anything else before I leave?"

 

"My sketchbook. It's on the coffee table. The pencils, too."

 

As Peter fetched it for him, Neal thought he could get used to this. Maybe desk work at the Bureau wouldn't be so bad, after all. Maybe he could get Jones to bring him files.

 

After Peter finally left, Neal napped for a while, ignoring the book and sketchpad that were lying at his side. When he woke up, he read for a couple hours, and then got up and took the sketchpad onto the terrace, where he drew the Manhattan skyline until June joined him.

 

But after June left, and it got too windy to sit outside, Neal found himself sitting in bed again. Elizabeth would be by later with soup, but he'd have to entertain himself until then. He realized it'd been a long time since he'd had a vacation and, well, he usually preferred his vacations to be a bit more active. Having some time off would be so much better if he could go down to the Guggenheim, but he had a feeling Peter wouldn't be happy if he saw that in his tracking data. People on sick leave were not supposed to enjoy life, apparently.

 

Though, in truth, the thought of going out wasn't very appealing. He'd gotten tired just going up the stairs.

 

With a sigh, he looked at the file Peter had left on the table.

 

Maybe Peter had been right about sick leave being boring.

 

He didn't have to _tell_ Peter he looked at it. Or no, better yet, he could swallow his pride and use it as an excuse to call Peter at work. To talk about the case. And find out what everyone was working on in his absence. He hoped they were just doing mortgage fraud cases. He didn't mind missing out on that.

 

He got up and took the file back to bed with him, cradling it in his arms. He looked for anything in the reports that would give him an excuse to call Peter.

 

When he finally called Peter's cell, Peter answered and said, "Bored already?"

 

Neal could hear the smirk in his voice.

 

"I wouldn't say that. But I had a little time, so I took a peek at the file."

 

"And?"

 

"You should come over on your lunch break. We can talk about it."

 

"You mean, I can entertain you."

 

"Work can be entertaining if you like it. And I like stolen paintings."

 

"I know you do. I'll be there in an hour."

 

"Think you could bring me some apple juice? They gave me some at the hospital, and now I can't stop—"

 

"Why can't Mozzie run errands for you?"

 

"Moz is busy today, doing stuff you probably don't want to know about."

 

"I'll bring you apple juice."

 

Neal smiled as he hung up and sat back, leaning against the pillows. He supposed there were worse things than being stuck at home.

**Author's Note:**

> ETA: kanarek13 has made me this wonderful artwork for this fic:
> 
> [](http://imgur.com/bJl7vKK)


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